A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words
by PolandSpringz
Summary: Written for my friend Jenny, who loves Shouji and is an amazing artist. We both noticed a severe lack of Shouji writings and artwork, and now we both are doing our part to fill the void. You were born with an art quirk, allowing you to paint the world with your blood and tears, yet, you see no beauty in it or yourself. (AKA wow this took a depressing turn)


Silence swathed the two of you like a swaddling cloth. It engulfed you, wrapped the two of you in a comforting warmth and stillness. You were always a fast paced individual, rushing from one event to the next; the dates in your planner fell far behind your own schedule. Important dates passed by in the back of your conscious, only for the harsh repercussions of your negligence to come back and hurt you later. School assignments were more frequently left unattended and it truly was a miracle how many extensions your teachers so graciously gave you. It was a blessing you never got kicked out of Yuuei for your bad grades.

But, despite all that, you weren't a person who couldn't sit still for five minutes. Living on a highway didn't mean there wasn't time for stops after all. If anything, you appreciated the little moments devoid of sound and movement the most. You didn't ask for a fast paced life, but when you're dreaming of being a hero, certain things are put on the back burner when it comes to priorities. Perhaps, that's why you ended here.

Draped in lightweight linens of your bed, you were surrounded by various discarded sketches and a spilled out pencil case. On a desk to your left, a computer blinked its power light at you as it went into sleep mode, your tablet long since died during the night from being left on. Your pen was sitting in its stand, precariously balanced atop several stacks of filled sketchbooks. The large apartment window that sits behind the frame of the bed is barely covered by dark blue curtains; the rays of the white spring sunlight explode into the room and cast your shadows across the floor. You breathe in and out, staring up at the ceiling where a large painting has been streaked across the white canvas. It's of nothing important, nothing real. If you could turn your head to the left and see over the figure resting atop you, you could probably spot your most recent sketch book, decked out in designs of robotic-like costumes and such. You keep trying to convince your boyfriend to update his costume to one of your designs, but you know he'll just laugh through a shaky sigh just as he rouses from sleep.

Speaking of your boyfriend, he was an absolute doll. When you had first seen him at the entrance ceremony of your first day at U.A., you had melted. Enchanted by his mystique and masked appearance, his multiple arms and soft but deep voice that apologized through a mouth on his arm when he accidently bumped into you had you hooked. You had sputtered out something stupid, spawning a surprised look from him before you ran off. Three years later, in college, the two of you lay on top of one another, dressed in light clothing as the heat circulates through the house. You stare at his sleeping face, which is nestled deep into the crook of your neck, his white hair covering his normally masked eye and his real mouth is half open, drooling onto the pillow, thankfully, and not you. His arms are splayed out across the bed, one set of six is curled to support underneath you as he cuddles you closer to his chest. His muscular frame is covered by a t-shirt and boxers, and your hands, which have been forcibly stretched out on either side of you against your will, another cost of having such an awkward sleeping arrangement, are just barely escaping the crushing weight of him sleeping above you.

You feel them twitch as you fantasize about how you came home last night in a torn costume, your hair matted with paint and your hands bleeding a mixture of your own blood and red acrylic paint that is pumped through your finger nails as a part of your quirk. Pangs of regret fill you as you vaguely remember Shouji tearing his mask off his face as he pulled you close, multiply his arms more and more so he could completely support you and lift you off the ground, building a wall for your safety. He had taken a different way home, he hadn't gotten caught up in the terrorist attack you had to walk by to the subway. He had apologized to you profusely and then took you to the bath, being gentle with your injuries as he cleaned you. Your vision was blacking out, but you remember the ugly mess of color going down the drain, the charcoal and oil paints leaking from your eyes and mouth as you bled out slowly from your gut. He had called a doctor to help bandage you up, he knew how you hated hospitals, and then he dressed you, made you tea, and then held you in his arms in the bed.

You turn your head a bit more, watching his eyelids flutter as you shift. Your body still aches, but you slide one arm out from underneath the heavy weight of your boyfriend and turn on your side. You feel his arms beneath you fall out of place and awkwardly shift and pull him closer, rearranging one another before you pushed lightly on the space between his shoulder blades, coaxing him to rest his head against your chest. Your breath stutters when you feel his head softly make contact with your tank top, but you pull him closer. Beneath your clothes, you can feel the gauze stretch and compress painfully with the new pressure added, but you could care less. You stroke his hair with the hand still beneath him, reaching up and risking a cramp as you twirl with the loose hairs by his neck. Your other hands rubs circles into his back as you feel him begin to stir, and you lean down to press a soft kiss against his forehead. The kiss has longevity, and you feel your heart break when you pull away and see his face tilt up to properly meet yours.

His eyes open and stare deep into you, and you feel your shoulders begin to shake as you see the questions behind their silent gaze.

 _Are you feeling better? I was worried. When you didn't come home, I thought that you had…You know I care, right? You're paintings are beautiful, why don't you understand that? You're beautiful, can't you believe me? You bleed the rainbow. You cry a work of Monet. I love you. Do you love me?_

"Shouji…" You're voice breaks the silence as it breaks, and you feel the different mediums pour down your eyes and you press your head into his hair, feeling as the paints and oils color his white hair with color.

"I'm so sorry."

You sob even harder, and his grip on you tightens.


End file.
